


Four-Toothed Smile

by Random_ag



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Acting, Antisemitism, Joey Drew Studios, Joey May Be A Bastard But Not THAT Big A Piece Of Shit, Lies, Period-Typical Racism, Pre-Canon, Slurs, helloooooooooo welcome to ambiguity enjoy yourselves, is joey a nice person or a capitalist bastard? yes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:20:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22210045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_ag/pseuds/Random_ag
Summary: There was something, in those four straight front teeth parted by a gap, that felt so kind and genuine and almost naive, there was no way it could have been part of an elaborate mask. Something in the way he spoke of projects with wide movements of his arms, in how he joked or discussed seriously about things with his employees, something that was just real, and good, and childishly kind, that it couldn’t have been a facade.But you were never sure, with Mr. Drew.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	Four-Toothed Smile

There was nothing particularly striking or memorable about the job interviews at Joey Drew Studios. The number of people that remembered those anxiety-ridden minutes wasn’t even enough to be counted on the fingers of one hand. 

But there was an image that had stuck in every employee’s mind since then: a smile of four candid teeth, all front ones, with a dark alley dividing them symmetrically right in the middle.

That was Joey Drew’s smile.

It was strange, Buddy thought, how the memory of it wouldn’t leave. And it wasn’t a side-effect of seeing it so frequently, a phenomenon caused by habit after having been hired - it was enough to see it just once for its mnemonic picture to be burned straight onto the brain. The man might have fabricated it as such: charming yet goofy, quiet yet enthusiastic… It fit and helped his wondrous appearance of an irresistible showman as it made him memorable to whoever he had the chance to meet - a useful quality, surely, when on the hunt for rich investors or fruitful partnerships. Not to mention the realistic, honest tint that shined within it must have helped as well when persuading loaners and creditors to lower their interests, assuring a better profit for himself. 

But there was something, in those four straight front teeth parted by a gap, that felt so kind and genuine and almost naive, there was no way it could have been part of an elaborate mask. Something in the way he spoke of projects with wide movements of his arms, in how he joked or discussed seriously about things with his employees, something that was just real, and good, and childishly kind, that it couldn’t have been a facade.

You were never sure, with Mr. Drew.

Some possible investors had come to the Studios once - wanted to see how it worked, or something like that. They were wide, odorous men with carefully combed hair covered in oil to keep them from moving. The cloud of their colognes (one for each man) followed them lazily through the departments, clashing with each other in a vague fog of discordant smells.

They looked at animators, musicians, handymen and writers alike without bothering to make a distinction between any of them; they seemed to have thought them strange creatures born of a horrendously hazardous mixture between plants, animals and rocks. Their eyes stopped for longer periods on certain people, as if watching a particularly interesting specimen. The way they fixed their stares on his kippah for the whole time he had tried to explain them the purpose and layout of the animation department had made Buddy want to tear it off of his head and never wear it again after finally feeling safe.

It wasn’t like him to eavesdrop on people - that was more of Dot’s thing - but he couldn’t help himself as he was about to knock on Mr. Drew’s office door.

“If I may, it seems uncautious to let anybody come into your Studios, Drew.”

The door was open just enough for him to see his boss. He was sitting on his chair, calm, his smile wide, but closed. One of his cheeks rested in his palm.

He rose a hand, pointing to something in front of him but obscured by the door: “Won’t you mind putting that out, please?”

“Can’t a man have a smoke?”

“I’m afraid the smell makes me nauseous.” Drew still had his smile shut.

“Bah! Figures you’ve never tried this brand. Trust me, it’s the best in town. The aroma is simply wonderful.”

“I don’t smoke.” he pushed the ashtray a little further with one finger.

“Are you sure? Because I assure you-”

“It’s revolting.” the ashtray hit the table softly. Not a sign of his teeth. “Won’t you mind putting that out, please?”

A large, pale pink hand reluctantly pressed the cigarette on the stone.

“So, I’m being uncautious.”

“Hm, yes, we think so.”

“How so?”

“Well, letting all those Negroes and Jews and Asians in here for once.”

Daniel Lewek bit his lip to resist.

“Don’t forget the Irish.” Drew added nonchalantly.

“Oh, yes, the Irish, of course.”

“Or the Latinos.”

“Yes, the Latinos as well.”

“Or the Italians.”

“Yes, the Italians, too.”

“And you forgot the women.”

“Right, the women- See, Drew, that’s the problem: your Studios, they’re full of this rubbish, these… These rats of society. It’s just unsafe.”

Drew hummed, raising his head slightly. It didn’t come back down for a nod. He seemed interested.

“I mean, how can you trust these people? They’re gonna steal all you got and book it at the first opportunity.”

“And what will they steal, the ink? The paper?” he cooed. “Believe me, there’s not much to steal in this industry. What, will they take the fountain pens? The only one who has one is the accountant.”

“About that accountant…” the tone lowered significantly, “He’s a _Jew_.”

“Yes he is.”

“Do you really trust a _Jew_ with your money?”

“Of course I do. They handle it since they’re born, why shouldn’t I trust one of them to handle mine? They’re not gonna _steal_ it anyways - they’re rich on their own already, no?”

He’d thought well of Mr. Drew. He’d really thought well of him. The way he’d looked at him, at his freckled face with his stupid untameable hair that he was too afraid to put a kippah on, and the way he’d talked to him and opened him up to the idea of animation, it had struck him as a good person. Buddy tried to think back to that time, to when Mr. Drew became aware of his religion and smiled without any kind of disgust - he’d struck him as a good person.

Mr. Drew smiled with a hand under his chin, but his smile was pursed.

Not open like that time.

“Well… What about the Negroes, and the Irish, and the rest?”

“What about them?”

“Why would you hire them? Why settle for, for filth, when there’s dozens of good, young American men just aching to get a job?”

Buddy’s boss drummed his fingers on his cheek. His smile reached his eyes without allowing any of his teeth to peek out in the slightest.

“You’ve seen the writers, correct?”

There were sounds that seemed a vocal expression of nodding.

“Well, there’s one of them, Dorothy, her name is. Lovely girl, you recognize her immediately - long curly hair, glasses, Black… I had to get her the glasses, she didn’t have the money for ‘em, or for a visit to check her eyesight, you know? Couldn’t have her keep her nose on the paper as she wrote, the stains she’d make! She does know how to write, though, she does. Now, she’s… About eighteen, give or take. Young, young girl. Lovely girl. Let’s say, now… That I had a choice. I had a choice between her - a young, Black, poor girl - and eighteen young white men. You know who I’d choose?

I’d choose her.

I’d choose a single Negro girl who might have left school after one year over eighteen Christian, sturdy, well-educated white young men.

You know why?

Because there’s a big difference between _being able_ to write, and _knowing_ how to write.

There’s no need for a brain to be able to write. The stupidest man on Earth could be able to write if he put even the smallest of his minuscule thoughts on it. Maybe he’d know nothing of grammar or sintaxis or spelling or calligraphy, but he’d be able to write.

And of those eighteen young well-educated white men, I’d bet my money on none of them if it came to know how to write. Because you need _brain_ for that. You need skill, talent, technique, whatever you want to call it, you need to think thoughts of your own, and I wouldn’t trust a single one of those eighteen young men to know how to write. Dorothy, she knows how to write. She brought me little stories she’d made on her own - little stories. With beginning, continuation and end. Not a thesis or an assignment. Incredibly simple. Even a child could make them. And I read those little stories, and I found them almost complex. Because she put in thoughts. And I was about to tell her, we don’t do stories like these here, ours are simpler, and then I thought, well if she knows how to write almost complex things writing simple ones will be a breeze. And I hired her.

And I was right.

She’s one of my best writers.

She’s brought me so much profit. If I’d seen her come in and said, oh sorry you got the wrong address, this is not a house, we don’t hire stupid filthy Negro women as maids here, I would be hundreds of dollars poorer than I am now.

These people - how did you say, rats of society? Catchy name, these rats of society, see, sometimes they know how to do things. Sometimes, because they’re desperate to not die alone of cold and hunger in the streets, they learn how to do things _well._ And when someone comes to me, and says they can do the thing I want them to do, that’s good enough for me.

And you say I’m uncatious.”

The smile was as wide as it could have been, but the lips only parted to speak, speak in a way that confused Buddy to no end - Mr. Drew adored Dot, he’d always praised her for her creativity and skill, and he adored his employees, but did he really? Was it all an act, was he just as ruthless and avid as many men before him had been? Where did the lie start, where did it end, was the truth divided from it or fused with it?

“Do you think these rats - catchy name, I told you! - these rats are gonna complain if I pay them less? If I make them work twelve hours a day? If I force them to never leave and never stop until they pass out from exhaustion?

I’m their world! I’m their _saviour_.

They _know_ there’s nobody else who will let them in, and that’s why they shut their pretty little mouths and work. They _know_ that if they get cocky, if they have complaints, maybe even do a little strike, I have the power to replace every single last one of them and leave them with nothing. I hold their dreams and lives in the palm of my hand. And if I see it fit -” and his pale fingers closed in an iron fist “-I can destroy everything they love.

That’s not something you can have with white young men, now, can you?”

He didn’t mean to knock the door ever so slightly more open.

Mr. Drew’s attention turned to his barely appearing figure behind the wooden surface; he back turned straight and his head rose with a tooth-gapped grin accompanied by wide, enthusiastic eyes.

“Daniel!” he exclaimed as the investors turned as well, “What brings you here?”

The boy gulped, stepping in the room. The storyboards in his arms shifted uncomfortably while he tried to ignore the glares directed at his head. Drew noticed the content of his limbs and began patting excitedly on his desk with his hands. He invited him closer with an amicable gesture and a soft noise of delighted anticipation, and Buddy put the papers on the table prudently, afraid of the consequences.

But Mr. Drew had changed completely: he examined words and drawings cheerfully, sometimes passing a hand on his stubble or muttering a couple comments. His left hand - which wasn’t his dominant one - searched aimlessly for his red pen to correct something. Buddy handed it to him.

“Thank you, Daniel.” Drew said with a voice completely different from the one he had used for the conversation that had been interrupted, yet that sounded exactly like it. “Could I ask you another favour?”

“Uhm, sure, Mr. Drew.”

“Brilliant. Could you bring me Ms. O’Flannel here for just a second? She should be doing her rounds around here at this time… Er, speaking of time, now is…?”

“Half past two.”

“Yes, she should be around here or around the first level then. Would you fetch her for me?”

“Sure. Sure, I’ll, I’ll go right now.”

“Thank you.” and he smiled again. The gap between his front teeth had the color of an inkwell’s bottom.

“Well, now, going back to-” one of the investors tried as Buddy began leaving. Drew rose his right hand, his left one badly attempting to scribble something.

“Hold on, hold on - I’m working right now. We’ll get back to it later.”

A large man that smelled of awful, expensive perfume reached for his lighter: “Ah, well then. I guess now it’s-”

“Revolting.” Drew repeated without raising his head.

“But I could-”

“The smell will get here. Be patient.”

Buddy closed the door behind himself.

It wasn’t hard finding Ma’am. Her feet stomped ludly on the animation department’s floor whenever she took a step. Getting her to stop and telling her Mr. Drew had asked for her proved a little more difficult - she was fast, despite her height and weight.

She huffed and rolled her eyes. Before making her way to Drew’s office, she turned to him: “Ye brought him the ‘boards?”

“Uh, yes ma’am.”

“Then come. He’ll be finished by the time we get there.”

Mr. Drew wasn’t quite finished, but he was close enough. He didn’t raise his head, but he still greeted: “Hello Niamh.” when the door slammed open and the annoyed woman walked in, the investors nearly jumping out of their jackets, suits and skin.

“What’s it, ye feckin’ dipshit?” she apostrophed.

The man who wanted to smoke looked at her, bewildered.

“No secretary has the right to speak to her boss like that!” another exclaimed nearly horrified.

Ma’am shot them a glare that could have blown a hole through their chests.

Drew stopped for a second to smile at them: “I don’t have a secretary.”

“Then what is she supposed to be?”

“The manager.” she grunted.

The investors decided to remain silent.

Mr. Drew corrected the last couple of things before setting the storyboards aside. He opened one of the desk’s drawers, rummaging through it a little bit. Eventually, he pulled out a big stone paperweight, very heavy by the looks of it, with both hands; he carefully placed it on the table, groaning a little. Ma’am took a look at it and grabbed it in her right palm as if it was a feather.

“Now, about what we were saying…” he continued, lips pursed in a smile.

“Yes, about the, the rats-”

“She’s one of them.” Drew interrupted him, pointing to Niamh. “And so he.” he added, shifting his finger on Buddy. “And I have made clear what I think about hiring them. Yes?”

“Yes, of course-”

“Then. I think we could close this parenthesis and focus on the real important matter at hand, hm?”

“The investments, sure, but-”

Mr. Drew gestured to Ma’am. She clenched her hand into a fist; the paperweight gave a fulmineus crack, and turned to rubble and a little dust.

Mr. Drew smiled wide, drowning the other men in the pitch black cutting his white teeth into two symmetrical figures: “That could have been your head.” he informed merrily, his voice melodious as a violin.

There was silence.

“Do you still want to talk about the rats?”

He extended his hand for a high five once the investors had all gone out of the Studios, but Ma’am slapped his nape instead.

“Rats?”

Mr. Drew cacked wildly, massaging the back of his head: “He said it first!”

“If ye tell me ‘an actor’s gotta act’ I’ll break both yer stupid arms.”

He gave her a silent chuckling grin. Buddy stared at his face without a a single one of his thoughts being clear. His boss looked back at him with those wide grey eyes, clear and yet thick as fog, his mind inscrutable behind them.

“You good, Buddy?”

“I, yes, Mr. Drew. I think so.”

Joey smiled at him.

Later that day, Buddy remembered, Mr. Drew had jokingly scared Dot and she’d punched him in the stomach by reflex, making him double over. He saw him compliment her quick reaction and strength with what little breath he still had in his lungs before hoisting her up in the air with a hug and kissing the top of her head, as he always did with to show his employees positive reinforcement. He heard him speak enthusiastically about her latest script.

A good person.

He’d really struck him as a good person.

A good person but a better actor, Mr. Drew might have corrected.


End file.
